


Like A Row Of Captured Ghosts

by lizwillstealyourgirl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Abstract, Angst, Dreams vs. Reality, Hallucinations, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Torture, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark Friendship, Kidnapping, Mentioned James "Rhodey" Rhodes - Freeform, Mentioned May Parker (Spider-Man), Mind Games, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Violence, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter says Fuck, Poor Peter Parker, Psychological Torture, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Waterboarding, as a general thing, idk what constitutes as graphic violence, it's not....happy per say, or maybe it's graphic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-01-15 14:56:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18501325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizwillstealyourgirl/pseuds/lizwillstealyourgirl
Summary: He shuts his eyes and counts, prays for a different nightmare to take him away, so that he never has to feel so hopeful and hopeless all at the same time, over and over again. He wants it to be real, he wants nothing more, but he knows it isn’t, how can it be? Weeks, maybe months have passed in empty rooms full of lies; how can Uncle Rhodey really be here? He can’t be — can he?“Peter, buddy, Uncle Rhodey’s here—”No, no he isn’t, don’t lie to me—“he’s gonna get us out, okay? We’re gonna get out of here—”Stop fucking lying to me—“and we’ll go home, okay? We’re going home.” Peter shakes his head.Don’t let them win. None of it’s real. Don’t let them win.—Peter gets kidnapped. He doesn't know what's real anymore.





	1. Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> this is a major whump it makes no fucking sense. read it and lmk if you want a part twooooo!!!!!!!! also lowkey a song fic: Welcome Home, Son by Radical Face

_**all my nightmares escaped my head** _

_**bar the door, please don't let them in** _

_**you were never supposed to leave** _

_**now my head's splitting at the seams** _

 

Fear is this funny, all consuming thing; distantly, he can hear water running, and he believes it’s an aquarium, what with the sounds of thick droplets of water plopping and churning that echo through his mind. All around him, a blanket of ice settles over his shoulders, encompasses him, traps him. He knows, here, now, he can never escape this moment; he can run from it, he can tear his body away and find an exit, he can drink until he forgets, but never will this feeling of _disgust_ fade away. Clammy hands and cold fingers drag over his skin and he feels _violated_ , he feels _subpar_ , he feels _inhuman_. Each and every cell that creates him screams to be let go, but he fights against the ropes around his wrist, and nothing changes; nothing at all.

 

He doesn’t know what day it is. He has no idea how long he’s been here. All he knows is that he’s not here — wherever _here_ is — willingly, and that Mr. Stark is shouting a few rooms away — he thinks, at least, it’s a few rooms, but his vision is so blurred and his ears ring so loudly, Mr. Stark could be on the ground in front of him and he’d have no clue.

 

There’s a film of cold sweat coating his skin, but his body is hot with a fever. He trembles, the weight of standing for days or weeks or months taking a toll on his legs, and his knees wobble, even with the consistent support of the table he’s leaned on. He’s not sure why he’s propped up like a project, like a science experiment begging to go wrong; he’s not even sure what these men are testing on him. But he does know, somehow, that nothing is real anymore. After weeks of this nothingness, reality is no longer tangible, and rather a horrifying blend of unreal, intangible things. Nothing is real anymore.

 

Today, now, he pries his eyes open just enough to see the blurry figure of a man in front of him. He opens his mouth, like he’s going to say something, but he desperately gasps for air while he is speechless and afraid. The man only laughs at him; a horrible, ugly, yellowish sound. Peter thinks he sounds like what disgust would if it made any noise at all.

 

Fear is all consuming when one is lucid, sure, but when they’re distant, only halfway there, completely incapable of understanding what is real and what’s been conjured up at the hands of somebody evil? That’s when fear is murderous; that’s when fear swallows you whole and coughs up the bones it chokes on; that’s when fear jabs its knives into your chest over and over again before draining you of your blood, of your dignity, of your strength.

 

Today, _now_ , he looks ahead of him and sees only images he doesn’t understand. He recognizes the scene at first; May and him are sitting on the couch, and he watches as she pulls this Fake Peter in for a hug. He doesn’t pull away, he never does, but he does look up at May and watch as her face slowly morphs into someone unrecognizable. Her canines sharpen and grow twice their length as she grins, wickedly, and stares at him with piercing, yellow eyes. She leans down closer to him and her ears triple in size, pointing and curving near the tips while inhuman fur sprouts out in tufts around her face. He cries out to her, but the words come out gargled and slurred.

 

“ _Sma - s’me, Magh - ‘on’ ‘ou ‘ecog’ize ‘e? Magh - sma - s’me - please, p’ease,_ ” he rambles. He’s not even sure he made a sound at all.

 

She only shakes her head, and the frown on her face twists upwards into a wicked grin. He screams until the world goes dark again.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, the lights are on all around him, and he’s as lucid as he’s been in ages. He reminds himself it’s all fake, it’s all just scenarios being fed into his mind, but by the time he sees Mr. Stark standing in front of him, he’s forgotten his own empty promises.

 

 _“I wanted you to be better,"_ rings out and repeats, over and over again, echoing and bubbling in the room along the concrete walls. Each time the room says it, the voice becomes more unfamiliar, less Mr. Stark — the first time it’s said, Peter thinks it’s so accurate, they must have found a recording of the argument and played it; the nineteenth time, it sounds an awful lot like everything Mr. Stark never was. By the nineteenth time, the voice is evil and cold and miry and sick and far away. Peter begs to be swallowed whole by the fear, to be taken away completely from this sad and ugly place where Aunt May has fangs and Mr. Stark speaks Parseltongue, but nothing he says makes sense at all; he’s barely even loud enough to echo.

 

Later, much later, he’ll think about how he could’ve gotten away; about how, if he dug himself out of his stupid, childish mind for longer than half a second, he could’ve found a way out of this dank and ratchet dungeon, this holy and barbaric laboratory. For now, though, all he can do is think about how _desperate_ he is to escape this unforgiving plane of existence, this dusty tomb of a planet, wherein if the wind should pick up, his throat will cloud with dirt and his mind will fog over with the sounds of someone crying; for now, all he can think is, _Escape_.

 

* * *

 

It happens a million times. He’s brought back to life with a memory that tastes an awful lot like stardust, that burns strawberry fires into his body, before the memory is molded into something he knows never happened _before_ but can’t say isn’t happening _right now_ and someone’s putting out their cigarette on his skin and someone else has a heavy hand over Peter’s eyes and the empty, unmoving, golden silhouette standing in the corner of the room only glowers at him emotionlessly.

 

Sometimes, he can fade back into consciousness and sentience — look at his hands, pale and shaky and green — and know that it is his body he’s attached to; know that he is human. Those moments, however, are bittersweet, because just as he knows he is human and these phantom memories cannot last forever, he knows his escape very well may be simply _death,_  could be when he drifts away from existence or when he finds the strength in himself to rip his hands out of the ropes tying him down and grab the scalpel on the side table to his right and—

 

He just hopes it doesn’t come to that.

 

The worst days are when his memories look real and _stay_ real. When the details they change are subtle and familiar and horribly true. When it’s Uncle Ben, bleeding out on the sidewalk, and instead of saying, “ _You did your best, Peter,_ ” he says, “ _You should’ve been better, Peter_ ,” before he dies. When it’s May, finding out that he’s Spider-Man, that he risks his life a hundred times a day just to look out for the little guy, and she says, “ _You can’t stay here anymore_ ,” rather than, “ _You can’t hide that stuff from me anymore_ ,” and instead of hugging him, she helps him pack his bags. When it’s Mr. Stark and he tells Peter he’s a disappointment. When it’s Ned and he says Peter is a shitty friend. When it’s MJ and she uses something Peter told her against him, like if he told her he was afraid of dying, she rips his heart out of his chest and squishes it in her fist. When it’s Flash and he says all the same things he’s always said, but all of a sudden, May is behind Flash saying, “ _I_ _don’t recognize you anymore_ ,” and Ben is there too telling Peter, “ _It’s your fault I’m dead_ ,” and Mr. Stark’s frown moves enough to sound out, “ _Y_ _ou’ll never be good enough_ ,” and Ned and MJ have their arms wrapped around Flash when they call out to Peter, “ _We don’t want you anymore_.”

 

When Peter wakes up from those, he can’t pinch himself and believe it was all a dream, because he doesn’t always know that it was.

 

Often, when he wakes up from the dreams he’s pulled into, he’s met with punishment. It’s as if there’s no escape; in consciousness, there’s pain, and in sleep, there’s fear. Sometimes, he fights back, tries to rip his body out of the ties around him, but he isn’t strong enough. Instead, all he is rewarded with is genuine, real, physical pain; they stick his hands in ice until his fingers turn blue, they poke him with a rod that rings waves of electrical current through his shivering body, they whip him with a rope and claws, they lay cloths over his face and pour water on him until he thinks he’ll float away. If he’s silent, unmoving when he wakes, they’re gentle to him, let him take sips of ice water through a straw until his throat doesn’t feel like it’s closing. If he cries for help, if he screams, if he squirms, he’s only given punishment; only given torture.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t know how long he’s there alone. Time passes by all around him but he never sees it move, not at first, not until he starts seeing things he knows aren’t really there; the clock in the corner of his vision that moves, flutters like an open door in the wind; the tile floors beneath him fading into blue, rising and swaying with the force of the current; the hands, creeping up his stomach and all around his face; the skeletons piled high along the outskirts of the room. He doesn’t know how long he’s there alone, but he does know the second he’s moved into a room with Mr. Stark.

 

He’s still tied to the table, but they fold it over so he’s laying down and wheel him to a room that looks awfully similar. There, however, lies Mr. Stark, up against the wall, chest heaving and head resting on the concrete behind him while he glares up at the ceiling. When Peter’s brought in, his gaze flickers down for a moment before it moves back up, but realization sets in quickly and he looks again.

 

“Peter?” he croaks out, and tries to scramble to his feet, but there’s hands holding him down.

 

Peter manages to nod, moaning in pain and discomfort. He squirms, pulls at his restraints, but they don’t loosen, and all that gets him is a painfully hot prodding feeling in between his ribs. “Stop fucking with those,” an unfamiliar voice scolds, so Peter whines and shrinks himself as much as he can into the cold slab he’s propped up on. He’s met with the ugly reminder that _none of this is real._

 

“ _What the fuck did you do to him?_ _”_ It’s Mr. Stark, presumably; at least, it _sounds_ like Mr. Stark, and the face that says it _looks_ like Mr. Stark, and the face’s body’s hands move the same way Mr. Stark’s always do, but Peter sees the lump in the corner of the room, right next to the body that speaks, and he thinks maybe the _lump_ is Mr. Stark, and maybe the person is someone the men are trying to trick Peter into thinking is Mr. Stark, or it’s an innocent stranger who was taken at the same time as Peter and is worried for Peter’s safety. Peter goes through all the possibilities, weighs every outcome and all of its pros and cons, and there is nothing inside of him that believes the speaker is Mr. Stark. He thinks, most likely, the person speaking is a figment of his imagination, a product of the weapon the men are using on Peter, violating him with; it can’t be Mr. Stark, because that would mean Mr. Stark was taken too.

 

The response to Pseudo-Stark comes out in broken pieces. “ _He’s — we used a — to extract his — from his — reality — dreams — intangible anyway — scared, Daddy?”_ Peter desperately puffs his chest, hyperventilating in his fear, losing his breath in his anxiety. His eyes fall closed, the bright white lights of the room all around him more painful than anything else. He tugs lightly on his wrists, with a fraction of the intent from before, and is chastised much lighter this time. The scolding breaks through his mind with more clarity than the voices from before.

 

Someone clicks their tongue. “Tsk, tsk,” they begin, and Peter whines, his head falling back against the metal while he tries to shy away from the pressure nearing his stomach. “You know you aren’t supposed to pull at those, Petey-pie. What ever shall we do with you?”

 

Another man speaks from far away, somehow, even more real than the last. “He doesn’t like the water!” All around him, the other men laugh. Peter can’t count how many there is.

 

“No—” he coughs, feels his own blood splatter on to his chest, and the jeering all around him grows— “please, d-don’t, I — no, please,” he begs, cries, but it’s all worthless anyway and he knows it.

 

“Don’t fucking touch him,” Pseudo-Stark’s voice rings out, but no one wants to listen to him. Even Peter wishes he were deaf, wishes they had taken his hearing away along with his lucidity, so that he wouldn’t have to listen to the cries of a man who sounds _so fucking much_ like the one Peter misses.

 

“Daddy Stark’s bein' annoying too,” a man says, and Peter sobs at the thought of Mr. Stark.

 

“M-Mr. Sta’k,” he cries, “I — I ‘ant Mr. Stark, p’ease.”

 

They laugh, and Peter lets his head fall forward in defeat. _Get me out of here_ , he prays, _May, Mr. Stark, somebody, anybody, please fucking save me_.

 

He wonders if he’s even worth saving.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s in that room for hours with the men before they leave. They take their time breaking him today, the intervals between the drownings are longer than usual, and the water falls slower than usual, and Peter knows it’s all to make him hurt even more than usual. When they leave, and he’s left alone with Pseudo-Stark, he fights so hard to stay awake, but sleep inevitably will take him, it always does.

 

Before it does, though, Pseudo-Stark talks to him. “Peter,” he says, and Peter gasps out an acknowledgement. “Buddy, I’m here, I’m gonna get us out of here, okay?”

 

It sounds _so much_ like Mr. Stark, Peter wants to believe it’s him, but for days or weeks or months or years, he’s been locked in a room with a million different Pseudo-Stark’s, who all scold and yell at and hurt Peter in a way Mr. Stark never would. This Pseudo-Stark feels the most real, looks it too, which is why Peter can’t let himself fall into the trap; if he does, the pain will be a million times worse when he’s ultimately broken and betrayed at the end of it all.

 

Peter thinks back to the golden figure that loomed in the lab he was in before. The gold and red that sparkled in the white lights of the hospital-like room. He tries, so hard, to believe Iron Man will save him, or even Mr. Stark himself, or anything or anyone, but time has passed so slowly and so immeasurably, Peter doesn’t even know if those people are alive and looking for him anymore. He doesn’t even know if they’d want to be. He shakes his head and cries.

 

“Peter, I promise, it’s me, I’m here,” Pseudo-Stark says, and Peter tries not to think about how this man knows his name, what this man is promising, where are they anyway? He shuts off his brain, squeezes his eyes tight, until his breathing evens out. He tries to remind himself of the good memories, untainted and faded and far away.

 

Mary and Richard, his mom and dad, laying on either side of his 8 year old self, which is crying softly, childishly. “ _We’ll be back soon_ ,” Richard says. Mary sings a lullaby to Peter, “ _Far away in a magical land… now they hear their mommies say: goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite_.” Her voice is all muffled and distant in his ears, and the words are slurred and jumbled and hanging together by a string, but Peter understands.

 

In real life, he doesn’t see them again after this, but in his twisted dreamscape he continually crawls in and out of, perhaps he can just pretend.

 

* * *

 

Each day becomes both _more_ and _less_ clear simultaneously. His concept of time strengthens, and he’s more aware than ever of how much time passes between the nightmares and the punishments and the feeding tubes. Usually, three hours after a nightmare, he gets fed, unless he woke up from the nightmare all angry — then, he waits six hours, and spends half of that being tortured. Pseudo-Stark is there the whole time, and he screams and cries as loud as Peter used to when this all first began. Peter’s too tired to cry that way any more.

 

What becomes less clear is what is _true_ and what is _fake._  He’s never quite sure if what he sees is real or if it’s one of the scenes created by strangers and implanted in his mind. He doesn’t even know what memories are his, or if they’re ever his at all; the only indication that he’s awake is Pseudo-Stark in the corner, speaking to him. In some fucked up way, this man — who Peter wants to _hate_ for impersonating his favorite human in the world, tied with Aunt May — is Peter’s only tether to reality. Peter still doesn’t know what this guy’s game is, but God, at least he makes Peter feel _real_. Feel human.

 

Peter thinks he gets five or six nightmares a day. Most of the time, they last an hour. If he wakes up and goes straight into punishment, he’ll likely only get four nightmares, maybe even three. If Peter averages it, he gets around four and a half nightmares each day, so after almost twenty, he figures it’s been somewhere around four days. Four days in a torture chamber that rests completely outside of Peter’s plane of existence, sitting next to a man who looks and sounds and seems so much like Peter’s mentor — his father figure — that Peter sometimes thinks he may even be real. Four days pass, and Peter’s worst nightmare fades into a dream come true. Maybe.

 

The door bursts through. The figure that follows looks an awful lot like Iron Patriot — so much cooler than War Machine — except it’s silver and bulky in the way War Machine was. Peter wonders if it’s just a second suit Mr. Stark made Uncle Rhodey for fun. Then, Peter wonders if it’s even here at all.

 

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, _they almost got me. Uncle Rhodey isn’t here. They’re just fucking with you. Don’t let them win._

 

He shuts his eyes and counts, prays for a different nightmare to take him away, so that he never has to feel so hopeful and hopeless all at the same time, over and over again. He wants it to be real, he wants nothing more, but he knows it isn’t, how can it be? Weeks, maybe months have passed in empty rooms full of lies; how can Uncle Rhodey really be _here_? He can’t be — can he?

 

“Peter, buddy, Uncle Rhodey’s here —” _No, no he isn’t, don’t lie to me_ — “he’s gonna get us out, okay? We’re gonna get out of here —” _Stop fucking lying to me_ — “and we’ll go home, okay? We’re going home.” Peter shakes his head. _Don’t let them win. None of it’s real. Don’t let them win._

 

“Peter,” another voice says, warm and far away and familiar too, “I’m here, alright? I got you.”

 

Peter sobs. _Why are they doing this to me? What did I do to deserve this? Is this my fault?_ A hand, metal and cold, lands softly on his shoulder, and he cries out in fear, jerks away from the touch.

 

“Ah — ’m sorry — please, ‘on’ hur’ me, p’ease  — ah — I’m s-sorry.” When he speaks, someone in the corner starts to cry. He wonders if that’s his fault too.

 

“Pete, honey, it’s — it’s me, it’s Mr. Stark, it’s Tony.” Peter cries harder and thrashes in his spot against the table. “I’m gonna take these off now, okay?” Pseudo-Stark asks, and lays a hand on Peter’s wrist, and Peter shudders in fear. _Why is this happening to me?_

 

When the restraints are loosened on his wrists and feet, he tumbles to the floor into some weird squat. From there, he sinks to the cold concrete floor, pulls his knees to his chest and buries his face in his arms, which are slimy with a cold sweat. His sobs are muffled by his own body, and there are hands all around him that never seem to land on him. The Fake-Rhodey is talking to someone, far away, but Peter is only focused on the Pseudo-Stark he can feel is kneeling in front of him.

 

“Peter, open your eyes, I need you to look at me,” Pseudo-Stark says desperately, almost begs, but Peter shakes his head and pushes his face further into his skin. “Please, Pete,” he cries, and Peter’s weak, he’s fucking _weak_ , because this guy sounds so much like Mr. Stark that Peter can’t stop himself from digging his cheeks out of his arms and flickering his eyes up to Pseudo-Stark, who, _fuck_ , looks so much like Mr. Stark, down to the wrinkles on his forehead and the bags underneath his eyes and the freckle next to his left eyebrow.

 

“I’m real,” Mr. Stark says, “100% real. It’s all me. What can I do to prove it to you?”

 

Peter shakes his head. They all tried to trick him. To make him believe it. He’s weak, but he forces himself to be strong, he can’t let them win; _It’s a dream,_  he tells himself, _it isn’t real. Mr. Stark isn’t here. It’s just you. It’s only you._

 

Mr. Stark — _No, not Mr. Stark_ , Peter tries to say, _it’s Pseudo-Stark, an impersonator_ — grabs his hands and tugs. Peter gasps, tries to pull them back, but Pseudo-Stark is stronger for the time being, and he places Peter’s hands on his hollowed out cheeks. “It’s me. I’m real. I’m Anthony Edward Stark, I’m older than I’d like to admit, I help you with your calculus homework even though you don’t really need it, I don’t even like the Ben & Jerry’s flavor they made for me but y-you’re, um, the only one who knows that, we made a — ah, we made a bot together, his name is I-C, I don’t know why you named him that but you did — _you_ did, Pete, I’m real, it’s me, I promise.”

 

Peter stares at the man for a moment while his breathing starts to steady. He flexes his fingers on Pseudo-Stark’s cheeks — maybe… maybe it’s the real Stark’s cheeks — and lets his hands dance over the dry and tired skin there. He traces the lines on Mr. Stark’s face, follows them from the apple of his cheeks upwards to the smiles lines around Mr. Stark’s brown, almond shaped eyes. He huffs out a breath. _Maybe_ , he thinks, guilty and afraid, _this is really him._

 

“It’s me,” Mr. Stark chokes out, his eyes watering in a way that makes Peter’s heart constrict and drop and shatter all around him, and Peter sobs, his grip on Mr. Stark’s face tightening. He reaches around and buries his hands in Mr. Stark’s hair and wraps his body around Mr. Stark’s like a bear, pushes his face into the junction where Mr. Stark’s neck meets his collarbone, and _sobs_.

 

“It’s — it’s you,” Peter gasps, and Mr. Stark nods, grabbing Peter around the waist and pulling him in tighter. “Fuck, oh my God, it’s _you,_ ” Peter says. Mr. Stark laughs wetly.

 

“Yeah, bud, it’s me,” he says, and, “I promise.”

 

Peter lets the promise wash over him like a tsunami, lets it swallow him whole. _If it’s a lie,_ he figures, _at least it was a good one._

 

_**and i don't know if i can** _

_**here, beneath my lungs,** _

_**i feel your thumbs press into my skin again.** _


	2. I've Come Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one took so long. inspiration is hard to find these days. things have been rough. but i poured everything i could into peter and this isn't my best work but... you guys deserve an update. so here it is. please enjoy it <3
> 
> trigger warning for implications of suicidal thoughts and intent to self harm. but like it's very much "implied" and not really there at all

**_sheets are swaying from an old clothesline_ **

**_like a row of captured ghosts over old dead grass_ **

**_was never much but we made the most_ **

**_welcome home_ **

 

Where does a day begin? And where a week? Was there ever a beginning, is there ever an end? Did time start somewhere? Has it always existed? Is it even really _here_?

 

Peter can pretend it’s all okay, pretend he feels his hands and feet and still believes that they’re _his_ , pretend the world doesn’t spin and sway and expand all around him, pretend he’s alive — but, in the end, he’s never really _here_.

 

He tries, though. He does. When Uncle Rhodey first rescued him and Mr. Stark — _Tony_ , Mr. Stark always insists, _Just call me Tony, kid_ , but Peter never listens — from that stupid dungeon/laboratory/hospital room (he still isn’t sure what it was or where he was, but he doesn’t really want to), Peter tried _so hard_ to feel complete. He did everything he could, but nothing changed; no matter how hard he tried, how much he worked, how long and often he lied to himself to make even just a _piece_ of him believe it, nothing changed. It was never enough.

 

 _And anyway,_ Peter thinks, _what’s the point? Maybe I’m not real anyway._

 

So he gave up. Just a little bit.

 

Sometimes, when he wakes up in the middle of the night — or sometimes when he doesn’t fall asleep at all — and he feels like a fish drowning on dry land, he counts his fingers and toes to make sure they’re all there; more often than not, he doesn’t believe he counted correctly. He’ll redo it, over and over and over again, until the sun has risen and he only slept a solid 45 minutes and it’s not enough, it’s never enough, but _it has to be._ (If it isn’t, if Peter doesn’t make it _enough_ , he’s afraid nothing will ever be _enough_ again.)

 

He goes to therapy, too. _Therapy_. He hates it, honestly, but Mr. Stark goes too, and Peter sort of does it because it makes Mr. Stark proud. Peter’s appointments are twice a week, every Monday and Friday, and Mr. Stark goes on Thursday’s. Uncle Rhodey said that Mr. Stark has been going since Afghanistan; Peter can’t remember Afghanistan anymore, not in any way that makes it feel like a _memory_ instead of a made up storyline that's been cultured and created inside of his mind. He can’t remember it, but he can imagine it, and he thinks that has to be _enough_. (If it isn’t _enough_ , could it ever be? Could _Peter_ ever be?)

 

One of the days after therapy, a Friday, when Mr. Stark picks him up to take him to the tower until Sunday afternoon, Peter thinks he’ll float away if Mr. Stark turns the air conditioning up too high. His hold on reality is shaky, fluid, and at first, Mr. Stark pretends not to notice, but he gives up on that pretty quickly and asks Peter about it, breaks through the ice unafraid. At this point, Peter and Mr. Stark had been driving for somewhere around 20 minutes, they’ve got probably 15 more minutes to go. They hadn’t said a word beyond the pleasantries (Peter was often _beyond_ exhausted in the hours immediately following his therapy sessions); instead, the only sound passing between the two of them had been Peter’s playlist (which was so graciously full of Mr. Stark’s favorites, too).

 

(Secretly, Peter is later immensely grateful that his dirty laundry was aired into the quiet of Mr. Stark’s orange Audi R8 Spyder. Even if it feels like a dream. Or a nightmare too.)

 

“You — you seem really out of it, buddy,” Mr. Stark says, his voice rumbling and echoing in a way that makes Peter a little bit sick. _He sounds so far away, like I’m underwater, sinking to the ocean floor._ “I know you probably just finished talking about it for 55 minutes, but if you need to talk, I’ve got ears. Okay?”

 

Peter hesitates. _Ears_ , he thinks, _sure, but — but are they yours? Are mine really mine either? Are you even who you say you are?_  His breathing picks up ever so slightly and his foot begins to jerk back and forth and the water levels start to rise, so he tries to swim away, to tilt his head up and breathe over the rushing waves, but saltwater splashes in his nose. _You’ve got ears, but how do you know they’re yours? How do you know you’re you?_

 

“—eter? Buddy?” Mr. Stark’s voice cuts through the murky water. His hands are outstretched for Peter now, and they’re pulled off to the side of the road along a state highway. Absently, Peter wonders why he never noticed the car stopping: _Did it stop at all? Had they always been in motion? Had they ever even started to drive?_

 

Mr. Stark doesn’t hold Peter unless he says the word, _yes_ . It has to be a _yes_ , not an _okay_ or a _fine_ or even a _sure_. A _yes_ means Peter’s coherent. It means he remembers something. Anything.

 

“Can I touch you?” Mr. Stark asks, and Peter whines, because this man is so familiar but all of a sudden, the features in front of him twist and Peter doesn’t recognize him anymore. _Who is that?_ he thinks, as the ocean starts to crash on the shoreline and swallow him whole.

 

But still — still, that _voice_ is friendly and warm and makes Peter’s head feel less like the Arctic Sea and more like the Amazon River, in all of the best ways. Even though Mr. Stark’s face is distant, pieced together by broken fantasies, it’s still Mr. Stark, and Peter knows if _his_ face was all scrambled, Mr. Stark would ask to see him anyway. He knows it’s not the same, because Mr. Stark isn’t really real yet, whereas Peter is real — he _thinks_ , he thinks that he’s real, but he’s really not so sure — but it’s still _enough_. Peter wants to be held. Even if Mr. Stark isn’t Mr. Stark. Even if.

 

A few long minutes pass and Peter’s still thrashing below the current. “Yes,” he croaks, because he’s desperate and scared and lonely. He wants Mr. Stark to hold him in that awkward Tony Stark way, and even if this isn’t really him — even if he’s betrayed and kidnapped or brainwashed or beat past the point of return — at least he’d die at the hands of someone who pretended to love him, and in the arms of someone who he loved too. Even if it isn’t _Mr. Stark_ , and least it’s enough to pretend.

 

Tender arms that taste like melons close in around Peter, like the low tide at 5:00 AM, on an empty beach in Carpinteria. The familiarity of it all rushes through Peter, and a wave of comfort hits him with the force of a tsunami. Peter breathes, heavy and cold, but even with the stone resting in his throat, it’s still _breathing_. He’s still breathing, which means he’s still alive, he has to be.

 

Mr. Stark’s whispers fade in and out of focus — the gentle, back and forth of the sea, the water lapping at the shoreline with the sweetest sort of strength Peter’s ever seen. “I’ve got you, Pete,” Mr. Stark promises. “I’m here, I’m real, it’s me,” he continues. Peter nods. It isn’t him, but Peter wants it to be him, and he chooses to let that be enough; if it isn’t _enough_ , Peter’s afraid that _nothing_ will ever be again.

 

 _Two steps forward,_ he thinks. _One step back._

 

* * *

 

Some of the time, Peter has nightmares — okay, _most of the time_ , Peter has nightmares.

 

It’s a different dream every day, but they repeat themselves, like the moment he closes his eyes, his brain sifts through the dreams like they’re albums stacked and standing in a music store, before it stuffs them into a record player and lets the music sweep him away.

 

The first one is always a lake. The Vulture. Empty Iron Man suits. Lift the mask and nobody’s there. Peter falls back in. This time, nobody digs him out.

 

The second is May. It’s practically a carbon copy of the fables produced during his captivity. Dream May tells him he isn’t welcome in her home anymore. She says it’s Peter’s fault for Uncle Ben. She says that he’s a monster, even as her mouth opens wider than twice the size of her face, her teeth grow as long as Peter’s fingers, and her eyes blink into yellow and green. He’s the monster, he realizes.

 

There’s others, too. Uncle Ben. Liz. MJ. Ned. Flash. But the worst ones, the ones that leave Peter scarred and inconsolable, are the ones with Mr. Stark. Peter dreams of Mr. Stark dying like Uncle Ben did, with Peter watching helplessly. In the compounds of his mind, he draws up some vicious imagery: Mr. Stark’s body, pliant and still warm, even as the blood drains from his body; his hand falling cold and his lips turning blue while Peter cries and holds him; bloodshot eyes blinking languidly, slowly, lethargically, until they rest open and unfocused, looking behind Peter.

 

There are different variations of it. Sometimes, Peter runs in slow motion to get to Mr. Stark, like he’s wading through the crashing waves along the coast. Other times, Peter can’t move at all and watches helplessly, his feet frozen to the ground. Sometimes, the running Peter makes it to Mr. Stark (not on time, of course; he gets there with only the time to grab onto Mr. Stark’s chilling hands and scream uselessly over his body); other times, Peter is always just out of reach.

 

He wakes up in a cold sweat most nights. It happens so often, Peter mostly gives up on sleeping entirely. He’d rather deal with the sleep deprivation than ever have to look at images of Mr. Stark bleeding out or Uncle Ben fading into nothingness or May morphing into something evil - ever again.

 

_Two steps forward. One step back._

 

He’s surrounded by it. Anxiety courses through his veins as thoroughly as his blood, and fills his chest as though his lungs were pierced and he suffocates, chokes on his own lifeline. The waves of icy, cold, ocean water tower over him and crash down on top of him, drowning him. There isn’t a lot that can save him; the list is limited to Mr. Stark and Aunt May, but sometimes Ned and MJ, too.

 

During the nights at his apartment with Aunt May, if he wakes up with a nightmare, she makes him his favorite tea. She knows, maybe better than anyone, how terrified Peter has become of his own mind since he was taken. She also knows how terrified Peter has become of her.

 

(It’s not so much he’s afraid of _May_. It’s more that he’s afraid of the _May_ his stupid, fucked up mind created. He’s not afraid of her, not at half past midnight when he wakes up from a lake dream and she is there, petting his hair with a hand on his shoulder, talking him in the sweetest voice that pushes him gently back into consciousness; not when they get Thai together, invite Mr. Stark over too and laugh at his old, alcohol-fueled interviews; not when May, MJ and Ned curl up on all sides of Peter and wrap their arms around him and talk him through the panic attack blossoming at the surface of his stupid, fucked up mind. He’s not afraid of May. He’s afraid of losing her.)

 

She calls Mr. Stark whenever she finds out Peter has a nightmare. _Finds out_ is an important clarification, because she doesn’t know about the May dreams, and Peter wants to make sure she never does. On those nights, Peter doesn’t wake her up, and he doesn’t wake up beside her. Instead, he tears apart the living room and flicks through the photobooks, traces his fingers over the old, browning pictures of him and May, and moves everything back to where he found it. But the time May wakes up, he’s in the shower, and has safely avoided talking about it; talking about anything.

 

She doesn’t know about the Mr. Stark dreams, either. Peter doesn’t think he’ll ever tell May or Mr. Stark about those, about the ones where the only family he’s ever known turns on him or dies. He can’t tell them about it. If he did, he probably wouldn’t survive.

 

His therapist knows, though. _Two steps forward_ , he thinks, because Peter told his therapist and that _has_ to be worth something. _One step back_ , still, because he can’t say the words out loud when he isn’t in the comfort of a woman’s office, the walls painted a faded, pastel yellow, and the couch a friendly green.

 

And Mr. Stark doesn’t find out, and Peter doesn’t want him to, until he’s spending the night at the tower and it just so happens to be a night full of the Mr. Stark dreams. Of course — _Just my fucking luck,_ Peter thinks bitterly — Mr. Stark programmed FRIDAY to tell him when Peter had a nightmare. Peter didn’t know about that part of her code until he woke up, mouth formed screaming a silent _No!_ while Mr. Stark’s hand shook him awake.

 

And now, Peter’s guilty. Mr. Stark’s eyes are as soft as they’ve been lately, but it still hits Peter with a surge of guilt and anxiety. _I made him that way_ , Peter thinks hazily, the words bubbly from his subconscious; _I made him afraid._

 

Peter wants to brush it off. He wants to tell Mr. Stark nothing’s wrong. He wants to be alone.

 

But Mr. Stark’s eyes are soft, and his voice is familiar, firm and arid in the way it was before, before Peter’s hold on reality was stripped away and tossed into the ocean. His hand is warm on Peter’s knee and his fingers squeeze the bone just slightly, just enough to keep Peter awake, just enough to make Peter feel like he isn’t going to float away. And Peter feels a little bit alive, a little bit real, when Mr. Stark says the words, “Pete, buddy, tell me what’s wrong.”

 

Peter breaks down. His resolve crumbles and the tightness in his chest releases so abruptly, he chokes when he gasps in a breath of air. He reaches out for Mr. Stark, who hesitates, but when Peter’s shaking hands wrap around Mr. Stark’s neck and his face buries itself in the cotton of Mr. Stark’s shirt, he holds Peter close.

 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Mr. Stark insists again.

 

It takes a while for Peter to catch his breath; it’s like the oxygen came flooding into his body, and he wasn’t ready to be able to breathe again. Soon, his heartbeat regulates, and he pulls away just enough so his words aren’t muffled when he says, “I keep dreaming about you.”

 

He looks up at Mr. Stark and sees his brow quirked. “What do you mean?”

 

Peter chews on his lip. “Nightmares,” he admits. Mr. Stark nods for him to continue, and he sighs. “You die. Like Uncle Ben. I have to watch a-and I never can save you. I’m always too late. If I even make it there at all.”

 

“Oh, Peter,” Mr. Stark says, all broken and sad and sympathetic. Peter squirms at the pity. “I’m not going anywhere, bud. I’m here.”

 

Peter whines and his lip quivers. “You don’t know that,” he cries. “What if — what if it happens? And I can’t save you?”

 

“That’s not your responsibility, Pete.”

 

“Except it _is_.” Peter tugs himself completely out of Mr. Stark’s hold to wrap his arms around his chest, grabbing on tight to his elbows. He glares at Mr. Stark, but the heat is overwhelmed by the pure, unadulterated dejection in Peter’s eyes. “When — when you can do what I can, and you don’t help people — when you don’t save people — it’s your fault when they die.”

 

“Nope,” Mr. Stark responds with the pop of his lips. “You are a _kid_ , Pete. 16 years old. You don’t turn 17 for another four fucking months. You are a _kid_. It is not your responsibility to keep me or anyone else safe.” Peter opens his mouth to speak, but Mr. Stark stares him down. “This is where you zip it, kid.”

 

Peter thinks about the last time he said that to Peter. _This is where you zip it, kid. The adult is talking_. Back when Peter fucked up monumentally and Mr. Stark wanted to skin him alive. Back then, Mr. Stark was _so angry_ , but here, now, in the somber quietness of Peter’s bedroom at the tower, a room in a home Peter has learned to consider his own, Mr. Stark is just _soft_. He’s gentle and tender and _alive_.

 

Mr. Stark redirects Peter back into the present as grabs onto either side of Peter’s face and tugs him in, pressing their foreheads together. “You are six- _fucking_ -teen, Pete. It’s not your responsibility to keep anybody safe. It’s mine, okay? It’s my responsibility to keep _you_ safe, and it’s your aunt’s, too. And I’m not going anywhere. Neither of us are. You are not alone and you’re never gonna be, okay?”

 

It’s not okay. It’s not enough. Peter doesn’t think it’s going to be enough.

 

But Mr. Stark is solid against him. If Peter drags his fingers along Mr. Stark’s arm, he can feel how it’s attached to Mr. Stark’s shoulder, then his neck, and then his head and face. If Peter closes his eyes, he can pretend Mr. Stark’s voice is the same as it was before, as _real_ as it was before. It’s not okay, not _enough_ , but it’s something; it’s two steps forward, one step backward.

 

The ocean in Peter’s mind is still loud, and his lungs are still full, but his heart beats a steady song and his eyes can see in front of him a man that’s identical to the man Peter knows. He doesn't know how to breathe in this world, in this universe where nothing is real anymore, but here, with arms wrapped around him tight enough to keep him tethered, to keep him from floating away, Peter thinks it's okay to suffocate a little longer. The waves used to swallow him whole, but now, they only lap at his ankles, biting at the curve of his calves and splashing his kneecaps just enough for him to feel it. It’s not enough. It’s _something_. Peter will take anything he can.

 

 _Two steps forward_ , he tells himself, and it’s not as bitter as before. _One step back._

 

* * *

 

It takes a long time before Peter can say the words out loud.

 

 _I don’t feel real some days_.

 

He’s overwhelmed by guilt, for some reason. He knows how hard everyone tries. He knows they do everything to ground him, to bring him back into the world when he fades away and to love him when he feels unlovable. No matter how much they try, still…

 

Still, he feels like he’ll drift away if he moves too quickly.

 

He counts his fingers still. Over and over. The number never changes, but Peter still never believes it, and eventually, it becomes the shittiest habit Peter’s had in a long, long time. When he makes sense of that much, when he realizes that he’s just digging a deeper hole for himself, he chooses to dig a different hole. He picks at his fingernails and cuticles. Clenches his fists until crescents-shaped indentations are emblazoned across his palms. Scratches at the underside of his forearm, just below the crook of his elbow. It’s probably just as bad as the whole counting thing, he knows, but it works better.

 

But, in the end, he learns that nothing works _better_ than what Mr. Stark and May did for him on the day he admits to them his hold on reality is crumbling at the seams.

 

It had been a bad day at school. Flash was no more asshole-ish than usual, but for some reason, everything he said settled into his bones, deep and cold in a way that drove Peter insane. He kept thinking to himself, over and over, _Am I worth all the effort May and Mr. Stark put in? How can I be worth any of it if — if I’m not even real?_

 

He still isn’t sure why those words set him off. But they do. He thinks that to himself before he breaks down crying in the bathroom, and it’s then that he realizes, _I should tell them_.

 

His therapist knows a little bit of it, but Peter hates talking about it. He likes to pretend it isn’t an issue instead. He knows that’s the worst _possible_ thing to do, but it’s what he does anyway.

 

He gets to his apartment after school pretty early. As soon as he does, he buries himself in a hug from May, trapping her in his arms as tightly as he can. He can’t help it. _I’m not real_ , he thinks, broken. _And maybe she isn’t either, but this —_ _it feels_ ** _good_** _._

 

She asks him if he’s okay, and for a minute, he thinks about lying. But then he blinks and before him flashes the images of Mr. Stark tied up nearby him and faceless men prodding him with sticks that shoot electricity up his veins and Uncle Rhodey saying to him, _I’m here, alright? I got you_.

 

Peter says no. She asks if he wants her to call Mr. Stark. He says yes.

 

It’s only half an hour before Mr. Stark gets there. As soon as he does, Peter pulls him in for a hug too. Mr. Stark walks the two of them in the direction of the couch and sits them both down, Peter curled up in his lap, while May coos. When they make it there, Peter looks over his shoulder and gestures for May to come sit next to them. She presses her body up against Peter’s back and wraps her arms around him. It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel enough.

 

But, God. It feels _good_. For the first time in a long time, Peter feels good.

 

And it takes a while, but finally, _finally,_  the words tumble out. “I don’t feel, um, _real_ some days.”

 

May sighs, a little bit broken, and Mr. Stark hums when he runs his hand through Peter’s hair. May sniffles before she asks, “Can you explain, baby?”

 

Peter nods and there’s an overwhelming tightness in his chest that seems to pull more and more taut as the seconds pass. “I count my fingers and toes to make sure they’re all there,” he croaks. “But even if there’s 5 on each hand and foot, I — I still don’t _believe_ it.”

 

Mr. Stark’s head drops against Peter’s neck. Peter tries to ignore the wetness he feels dripping from Mr. Stark’s eyes. Absently, the man wonders aloud, “Pete, w-what did they _do_ to you?”

 

Peter knows it’s rhetorical. He knows Mr. Stark doesn’t expect an answer. Peter wants to give it to him anyway. _Two steps forward, one step back_ , Peter figures. _Telling someone helps, right? That’s what everyone always says._

 

“A lot,” he answers lamely. “They — they made me feel like everything was fake, you know? They used something on me, like a drug, and I hallucinated a bunch of stuff. You guys. Uncle Ben. Ned and MJ. But, like, everything was different.”

 

“Honey,” May whimpers. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s okay,” he tells her, even though it's not true, because it's _not_ okay, _he's_ not okay. Still, the rushing water isn't as angry with May and Mr. Stark on either side of Peter, and for once, he doesn't feel like he's going to be swept away by the current or kidnapped by the tide. For now, that's okay enough. “I’m here with you guys. I don’t always feel real, but… I think I feel real right now. So it’s okay.”

 

Mr. Stark leaves a kiss on Peter’s temple. “You’re real, buddy. We’ve got you.”

 

“Always,” May adds. “We’ve always got you.”

 

 _Two steps forward, one step back_. It’s better than nothing. Always better than nothing.

 

* * *

 

Peter still picks at his nails sometimes. On the worst days, his finger beds bleed, wilted and torn and broken, while the entire oceans falls over him and tugs him down with the current. On the better days, the _good_ days, vines sprout from his cuticles and flowers blossom at the crook of his elbow, and the high tide only comes up to his ankles. Hopefully, a garden will grow from his tortured body.

 

It isn’t enough. Things aren’t okay. Still, he thinks that — maybe someday — they will be.

 

Recovery is not linear, Peter learns. As much as he wishes it was, it simply isn’t; he would love for each day to be gradually easier, realer than the last, but he doesn’t have that sort of luck. Regardless, the days do _feel_ easier, even the bad days, when Peter can’t seem to recall his name or his address or his favorite movie anymore, because each day, he's a little bit less alone. A little bit more well equipped to deal with the  _everything_ that his kidnappers had given him. Every day, he's one step closer to Mr. Stark, to May, even sometimes to Uncle Ben; every day, he's just a little bit closer to being okay.

 

It isn’t enough. It probably won’t be enough for a long, long time. But Peter’s 16. He’s got all the time in the world to make it there.

 

 _Two steps forward, one step back_ , Peter thinks. _Still — one step forward._

 

**_heal the scars from off my back_ **

**_i don't need them anymore_ **

**_you can throw them out or keep them in your mason jars_ **

**_i've come home_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm marking this one as complete BUT if there's desire or whatever for another part i would love to write more :D
> 
> i changed my tumblr to shazameroos by the way!
> 
> peterporkerrr.tumblr.com >>> shazameroos.tumblr.com
> 
> come say hi to me and talk to me about my fics haha! <3

**Author's Note:**

> tell me what u think!!!!! for now i'm marking this as completed but if anyone wants more, i could totally write more for this fic tbh haha. thannnk u for reading!
> 
> tumblr: peterporkerrr.tumblr.com


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